Attention
by Jellico
Summary: When Little Clark starts feeling neglected by his daddy, tantrums result and objects around the Kent house get broken. The question is: will Jonathan pause long enough to realize the root cause? Or is it enough in his mind just to punish and move on?


**(Late October 1990 – Saturday – 7 PM)**

In the cozy, two-story farmhouse that had been part of his family's homestead for generations, Jonathan Kent, age thirty-six, only half-heard the energetic goings-on upstairs between his wife and adopted young son. Instead, he surveyed the place settings on the dining room table with satisfaction then checked his watch. Martha had made it very clear that the lasagna should be taken out no more than eighteen minutes after she started giving Clark his nightly bath, and that was just about … now.

Armed with protective mitts, Jonathan removed the steaming dish of pasta from the oven but was only given an instant to inhale the delicious aroma before Martha called out to him anxiously.

"Jon, catch him!"

Jonathan didn't have to ask who, when, where or why. In two seconds flat, the lasagna was on the stovetop and covered, his oven mitts were tossed to the side and he hustled to position himself perfectly at the bottom of the kitchen stairs. Barely a split second later, his speed-demon of a munchkin barrelled straight into his arms, smelling of Dove soap and baby shampoo and holding a damp towel around his shoulders.

"Hi, Daddy!"

"Whoa there, son!" Jonathan settled Clark on his left arm and couldn't help chuckling at the half-naked state of his child. It had been almost three years since he and Martha had wrapped Clark in a blanket then taken him from Miller's Field, but no matter how many times they explained the importance of clothes to their little boy – top _and_ bottom — his preferred state of dress remained exactly as he was now, especially right after a bath. Jonathan considered scolding him for it, then immediately decided not to waste his time. He shifted Clark on his arm, noting how the boy was knuckling his right eye like he always did when he was overtired. "Just where do you think you're going, buddy? It's nearly bedtime."

"But I don't wanna go to be bed," Clark declared with the most impish of grins for his father. "My bath is finished now, so I want you to play with me."

"Not tonight, son."

"Why?"

"You know why," Jonathan said, tweaking his button nose before setting him down with a gentle pat to his rear. "I already told you it's bedtime, and Mommy and Daddy are having company over soon. This means you need to head right back upstairs so you can get into your pjs, brush your teeth and jump under the covers. Now scoot."

Five-year-old Clark lost every one of his happy thoughts. This was the fourth time today that his father hadn't been free to spend time with him when asked. All week after school he'd been too busy on the farm to play. It wasn't fair! Clark thrust out his lower lip in a fearsome pout then deliberately plunked himself down on the floor with his back against the stairs.

" _No_. I want you to play with me, so I'm _not_ going to bed."

Jonathan's brow came together as he gave his stubborn son a look of warning. "Clark..."

"No, Daddy, I don't wanna." Clark folded his small arms across his chest, stretched his short legs out in front and scowled right back up at his six-foot-three-inch father. "I don't wanna brush my teeth, I don't wanna wear pjs and I don't wanna go to bed. I just wanna play with you."

Jonathan glanced up to see Martha stepping out onto the second floor landing, her open mouth obviously poised to scold her little boy for disobeying his daddy. He raised a hand to her to let her know he'd handle this, then squatted before their child so the youngster was eye-to-eye with him.

"Clark Kent, playtime is over for today and you know it. Now you march yourself up those st—"

"No! I don't want to! _I don't want to! I DON'T WANT TO!"_

Before his parents could stop him, Clark twisted to face the banister behind him then punched the base of the newel post. It was four inches thick and constructed of solid red oak, but Clark's skinny arm tore straight through it with ease like he was poking a needle through paper. Chunks of wood and over a dozen splinters skittered across the floor as Martha gasped and hurried down the stairs to inspect Clark's arm, but Jonathan wasn't too worried about injuries. By now, he knew his son. Right alongside Martha, though, he checked Clark's arm anyway to ensure the boy wasn't somehow cut, bruised or broken, and as expected, he wasn't. He also wasn't regretful. Jonathan reached out to lift a sulking Clark to his feet then gave him a single shake of warning.

"Clark Kent, why did you do that?!"

 _"'Cause I'm mad at you! You won't play and I don't like you! You're not nice!"_

"Well, being mad at me is not an excuse for wrecking the house, young man. What you did was bad, and if you don't calm down and apologize right now, you're getting a spanking. Is that what you want?"

Clark stomped his right foot. _"I don't care 'cause it won't hurt me!"_

Jonathan shot Martha a grim look but then refocused his attention on their defiant young son.

"We'll see about that. Come here." Jonathan took his little boy by the hand, straightened up, then marched him over to the closest dining room chair, taking care to lift him over the largest splinters even while knowing they wouldn't hurt him. The moment he sat down he draped his stiff-necked son facedown over his lap. "I am very, very, _very_ disappointed in you, young man. Look what you did to the banister. What have Mommy and I told you time and again about throwing tantrums and breaking things on purpose?" Jonathan didn't wait for Clark to reply. He simply got started smacking the bare bottom before him, well aware that the sound of so many resounding slaps combined with the angry tone of his voice would affect Clark's conscience far more than feeling physical pain. "You're being naughty for no good reason at all and I don't like it one bit, Clark Kent. This is not how a son of mine behaves, not ever. Do you hear me? Now get upstairs and into your pjs this instant!"

With four final swats to cement his displeasure, Jonathan lifted Clark up and dumped him on his feet. He wasn't the least bit surprised when Clark stared up at him with a trembling chin then burst into a flood of tears and launched himself at his mother.

 _"Mommy-Mommy-Mommy! D-Daddy spanked meeee!"_

Martha didn't hesitate to pick him up. She knew just as well as Jonathan did that their baby was immune to the sting of a spanking, but time and time again their little one had proven he felt its burn in other ways. Besides, she understood why he was so frustrated and upset. He certainly shouldn't have punched a hole in the banister like that, so he needed a spanking to remind him that was both wrong _and_ dangerous, but he was still only in kindergarten. He didn't comprehend yet how much work a farm was or why his father wasn't free to play every day or even every week. All he knew was that he wanted his daddy. Martha sighed to herself at the negative turn Clark's bedtime routine had taken and hushed him gently while she carried him back upstairs.

Jonathan watched and listened to her motherly murmurs departing out of range then shook his head as he surveyed the latest household wreckage from their unnaturally strong son. The Millers would be arriving any minute now. How the heck would he and Martha explain a jagged three-inch hole in a hardwood newel post? Jonathan truly had no idea, so after he'd swept up all the evidence, he checked his watch, saw he was out of time and decided the best thing to do would be to hide the damage altogether for the moment. He snatched from the living room sofa the oversized afghan Martha had finished crocheting for Clark only the month before and draped that over the post. The blanket was a bright red, yellow and blue and didn't match the room's décor, but too bad. Clark had better not complain either about missing his new favorite blankie; the little guy was just going to have to do without it for one night. Jonathan adjusted its position on the banister then toured the back stairs from every angle. Just as he was satisfied the hole Clark had made couldn't be seen no matter where a body stood in the room, the front doorbell rang.

Jonathan took a deep breath and went to answer it then smiled wide in greeting as Deputy Ethan Miller and his wife of ten years stood on the porch with two bottles of California red.

"Are we still invited for dinner?" Ethan asked with a wink. "Or did you change your mind again?"

Jonathan opened the door wide. "Very funny and thank you for the wine. I cancelled the last two times because Martha got sick and then I did. Now hurry up, come on in and get warm. It's freezing out there!"

Exuberant as always, Cheryl hurried to hug him and plant a resounding kiss on his cheek before passing him her coat, cozying up to the crackling fire in the living room and then scanning the ground floor eagerly.

"My, but this feels good and that pasta I'm smelling is making me want to salivate like a waterfall! Tell me quick: where is Martha and that gorgeous godson of mine?"

"Upstairs." Jonathan waited for Ethan to pass him his own coat then hung them both in the closet under the front stairs. "It's Clark's bedtime."

Cheryl's face fell. "Oh no! You're not letting him stay up late to have dinner with us, Jon?"

"Honey, he's only five," Ethan pointed out with a chuckle. He settled onto the sofa, gesturing for his high school sweetheart to join him. "He probably ate two hours ago."

"So? He could eat again, couldn't he?"

"Uh no, sorry." Jonathan took the wine bottles into the kitchen and popped the cork on the first. He poured three glasses then brought them out and handed two to his friends. After a quick toast, he saw the disappointment Cheryl was still wearing and explained further, "Martha and I have learned the hard way that some routines with children are never worth breaking. I don't know about other kids, but when _your_ godson eats too close to his bedtime, his stomach doesn't handle it well, he has nightmares and then he's crabby as heck all the next day. Not a good idea. Also, he didn't nap today and I can tell he's tired. He needs his sleep."

"But I wanted to spend some time with him," Cheryl begged. "I haven't seen him in weeks and he's such a little angel."

Jonathan promptly snorted then jerked a thumb toward the dining room. "You wouldn't have thought so fifteen minutes ago, Cheryl; I guarantee it. Your 'little angel' was having a temper tantrum right over there and you can trust me when I say it was a doozy."

Cheryl Miller wasn't swayed. She pouted sexily in Jonathan's direction, and just like her own husband did even after all these years when confronted with that pretty moue, he sighed then semi-caved.

"All right, all right. Clark is _not_ having a second dinner with us, but you can go on upstairs and help Martha tuck —"

Jonathan didn't bother to finish his sentence once Cheryl squealed like a girl then hurried upstairs before he could change his mind.

Ethan watched her go then arched an eyebrow in Jonathan's direction.

"Just so we're clear, I never knew she was such a sucker for kids until Clark came along. I dunno what it is about that little boy of yours, but now she's all over _me_ to make her a mother like Martha. She wants to adopt a whole passell of kids, boys, girls, twins, you name it."

Jonathan couldn't help but laugh, knowing his friend. "Wow. I don't have a clue what to say. Doesn't she know better by now?"

"I guess not, so what do you think? Should I give in and start with at least one? By the way, I've been meaning to ask, what was the name of that agency you got Clark from again? Metropolis Universal Something…?"

Jonathan nearly choked on his wine. "Uh, you can't call them, E. They folded a year or so ago."

"Damn."

"You're really and truly thinking of adopting?"

Ethan shrugged. "Cheryl sure wants to. Me? I think I'll always have my doubts about the kind of father I'll be. You remember what I was like in high school. I always said I didn't want any rugrats underfoot, so that's kind of a sign, isn't it?"

"What're you talking about?" Jonathan forced himself to grin despite his stomach still being in knots at the mention of Clark's adoption. "I've known you all my life and you'd be great at it. You'd set a good example too, being a police officer and all. Any kid would be lucky to have you; I'm sure of it."

"Well, I still don't know." Ethan hedged then smirked over at his dinner host. "Would you be willing to bet my life on it? Fatherhood sounds like a prison sentence to me."

Jonathan started to answer but was interrupted by the pounding of small feet charging down the stairs. He checked his watch then set down his wine glass and stood up with a sigh only to have his balance rocked a half second later by a clingy dark-haired bundle fully dressed this time in a pair of snug fit cotton pjs. Jonathan reached down and lifted Clark into his arms.

"It's past seven-thirty, young man. Aren't you supposed to be in dreamland by now?"

Clark's response to that question was simple: he tightened his hold around his father's neck and lay his head on the man's shoulder, curling inward. Jonathan looked to Martha and Cheryl for answers since they were descending together far more sedately than Clark.

"Sorry about this," Martha explained with an indulgent smile on her face, "but a certain someone refused to settle under the covers until his hero forgave him for being a little testy earlier."

"Hero, huh?" Jonathan bounced Clark higher on his arm, trying to get the child to look at him. "Am I your hero, buddy?"

Clark hesitated then nodded solemnly against him. He raised his head, glanced around the room and peeked beneath his lashes at his father. "Daddy, I'm sorry I was bad before. Am I still your son even when I'm naughty? Do you forgive me?"

Clark had tried to whisper, but everyone still heard him. The women's hearts melted and, Ethan, too, felt a tiny twinge in his chest as he watched Jonathan cuddle his son closer, kiss the top of his head and whisper back,

"Always. I will always forgive you and you will always be my special little boy, you got that?"

Clark held on tight and nodded, but couldn't help asking,

"Will you play with me then tomorrow no matter what? I miss you, Daddy. I love you and I really, really miss you..."

Jonathan thought of all the pre-winter chores he still had to do and started to say no, he couldn't play even if he did love Clark just as much. After all, he had at least five more cords of wood to chop and stack, he had to winterize the chicken coop, and he definitely needed to service the tractor. He didn't have time for fooling around just yet, not when the summer crops had yielded as little as they had which meant he couldn't afford to hire help this fall to keep up the place.

All of these worries and excuses ran through Jonathan's mind in a jiffy … but then he thought of his own father.

Hiram Kent had almost never played with his boy. There had always been farm chores to do, and those had pretty much always taken precedence over his only son. The vast majority of the time they'd spent together was farm-related; they hadn't truly talked about anything of interest to Jonathan unless it directly impacted the family's finances.

Jonathan absolutely did not want to be like that. He wanted Clark to know in his heart that he was valued every day by his dad and that his value had nothing to do with his utility as a future farmhand. As he felt Clark sniffle against him, remembered the things he'd said in the dining room earlier and realized what must have spurred the boy's childish bout of frustration, he knew there was only one correct way to answer the question his son had asked.

He looked around the room at his wife and friends, all of whom were waiting to hear his reply too, and he kissed the top of Clark's small head again.

"You know what, buddy? Yes, I'll play with you tomorrow. All day from sunup to sundown."

Clark perked right up and began to beam. "You promise, Daddy? You swear?"

"I swear. Now let's go upstairs, just you and me, and find the perfect bedtime story. Say goodnight to everyone."

Eagerly, Clark waved to the other adults in the room and called out multiple 'good nights'. When that was done, he propped his chin on his father's shoulder, swung his legs and kept right on grinning. He had no need to hide his face anymore. Why should he? He was happy!

Jonathan's heart felt just as light. He adjusted the slight weight in his arms then headed for the stairs with a smile of his own, a pep in his step and a promise to return to the adults in twenty minutes, but two seconds later, he paused and turned back to catch Ethan's eye.

"Fatherhood isn't a prison sentence, E. It's a gift from Heaven. Remember that."


End file.
